


Drabbles from Lothric

by bombcollar



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Depictions of Abuse, Drabble, Gen, Guaranteed Incest-Free, Mild Gore, One Shot, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-24 03:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10733463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: A bunch of short fics, drabbles and one-word prompt responses based around the Twin Princes.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Collected from my RP blog (cursedandcarried.tumblr.com)!  
> If I get more I may do another entry.

  * **Burning**



“It is unholy, stained by Chaos. My prince, you cannot continue to use this blade. We will forge you a new one.”

The cleric wraps his fingers in cool linen. Healing magic has done most of the work already, but the skin needs time to do its own mending. When Lorian had taken his blade’s grip after cutting the Demon Prince in half, it blistered his skin, nearly seared itself to him as if it did not want them to be parted.

“No,” Lorian says. “I can tame it. Once you’ve bested a demon, how hard can a sword be?”

* * *

  *   **Sweetness**



It is customary for repeat visitors of Lothric to bring gifts for the young holy prince, usually treats from their homeland or picked up along the way. Pilgrims making their yearly journeys to the capital of the Flame knew the young savior’s preferences, and it had become something he looked forward to. A traveling priestess of the White gives him a peach she says came from a tree that bore a dragon-slaying greatarrow embedded in its trunk. Despite the journey it’s as fresh and unblemished as if it had just been picked, perhaps from the dragon blood still nourishing it.

* * *

  * **Pain**



The cathedral is full of faces, unified in their reverence, facing him as he trembles like a leaf, curled and coughing his lungs raw, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. Every breath taken is a knife in his ribs. The cavernous hall is always cold, even in the belly of summer, but in winter it is freezing.

The pastor speaks over his phlegmy wheezing, droning on about the coming of the season. Winter may be cold and dark and weary, but it serves an important purpose. Better to appreciate the sun and the warmth of Flame in its absence.

* * *

  * **Sour**



Feverweed tea, even with a generous amount of honey mixed in, always tasted foul. Lorian helps his brother hold the cup steady as he drinks, slowly, so he’d be able to keep it down.

The priests did not seem so concerned. Someone of divine blood would never pass away quietly from illness. They could only ever go out in a fiery storm of righteous martyrdom. No matter how ill the prince became, how badly he shook and how thin and wasted his body grew, they insisted upon waiting and praying and leaving it up to the will of the Flame.

* * *

  *   **Salty**



“Your highnesses, I beseech you, let me in,” the priest begs through the crack in the doors. He’d fled the chapel the night of the failed Linking, hidden in the settlement below until the devotees of the Deep had driven him back to the castle.

He is hollowing, but Lothric recognizes him, one of the many who’d stood by as he suffered, reminded him that pain purified the soul as he begged to be taken back to his room. Heavy wingbeats and the clank of golden armor approach.

“I will pray for you,” Lothric says as he shuts the door.

* * *

  *   **Eggshells**



“You wanted to see me, father?”

Sometimes Lorian thinks his father never truly _wants_ to see him. Oceiros keeps his back turned, facing out the window. It is sunset.

“Where did you go, last night, Lorian?”

He had gone nowhere. He had watched over Lothric, like he always did, and slept through the night. Lorian shifts his weight, but stops as he sees Oceiros turn his head, as if the movement might be an admission of guilt. His father’s mind was slipping these days, but it hardly mattered if he was right or wrong. He decided what was the truth.

* * *

  *   **Admiration**



“But, one giant came forward, and asked to join Lord Gwyn’s company. He claimed his skill with a bow was unmatched.”

Lorian is sleepily nestled up to his mother, listening to her talk of his grandfather and times long past. “I don’t know if I could forgive someone like that…” he murmurs.

“Well, Lord Gwyn was willing to give the giants a chance…”

“No, Gough.” Lorian tilts his head to look up at her. “After what they did to the giants. Making them slaves and treating them so badly.”

“…of course.” Gwynevere strokes his hair. “Gough was a good man.”

* * *

  *   **Chime**



“I could have done something… I could have used it, but I treated it like a toy, I’m so _stupid_ …”

Lorian picks the pieces of the chime’s porcelain bell off the floor, sweeping them gently into his hand so he doesn’t damage them further. Yorshka’s shrill cries echo thinly in the empty hall, as she clings to Lothric, face buried in his shoulder. They could fix the chime, repair the cracks with melted gold, but the sound would never be the same. There was no returning to childhood innocence after such a loss.

* * *

  *   **Bow**



Lorian subtly corrects Yorshka's hold on the bow, nudging her elbow just a bit, but nods as he sits back, signing to her, _Almost exactly right. Very good._

The fangy smile he gets in return is radiant, and he can’t help but smile himself. He’s set up some old family portraits he dug out of storage for target practice, his father’s dour face leering down at them. The canvases have gone moldy, but his eyes are still piercing. It will be a joy to fill them full of arrows.

* * *

  *   **Love**



The newborn child the nurse places in his arms is tiny, light as a handful of down feathers. How long had he wished for a brother? Lorian cherished his younger sister, but as they’d grown up, their paths had diverged, as he knew they would. Sons and daughters of royalty had different expectations put upon them. Now, nearing the age he should be thinking of becoming a father himself, he can’t help but wonder if it’s not too late. He holds his fragile little brother to his chest, laying a gentle hand on the infant’s head and closing his eyes.

* * *

  *   **Wildflowers**



“Lorian.”

Lorian looks down at his brother, so small and pale against the shady grass, swallowed in his robes so only his scaly little hands are visible. He is holding a handful of flowers, picked from the patches that grew in the less-attended corners of the gardens. Tiny white and purple blossoms. 

“Make me a crown… like the handmaidens do.” Lothric saw them out here all the time, gossiping and weaving flowers into braids. His hair was lank and brittle, but a woven crown would stay on, wouldn’t it? And a prince like himself should have a crown. He waves the bundle of stems. “Please?” 

Lorian smiles, brushing Lothric’s hood back carefully so the jewelry did not tangle. “Of course.”

* * *

  * **Brother**



“Look at it.” His father’s nails dig into the scant meat of his little shoulders, urging him toward the iron bars even as he whimpers. “Stop whining and _look at it._ ”

Lothric stares at the pale, hunched creature. Its skin is slick, covered in patches of malformed scales. A pair of scrawny, featherless wings twitch above its back as it regards him with huge, milky eyes, set deep in its fetal skull. Lothric is nearly within arm’s reach of the thing, if only it stopped cowering in the back of its cage and reached through. There is another huddled in the back, unmoving.

He shuts his eyes again, and Oceiros shoves him against the bars as he roars, “LOOK AT IT, LOTHRIC, LOOK AT YOUR BROTHERS! THEY WERE UNWORTHY, UNLESS YOU FULFILL YOUR DUTY YOU ARE NO BETTER THAN THEM!”

The creature cowers back as Lothric yelps, tears beginning to sting his eyes. He mustn’t cry, a true, worthy heir faced their fate with a smile, and he mustn’t be unworthy.

 


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even more drabbles and quick oneshots from my blog.  
> not all of these have prompts so my apologies for the inconsistency.

_“The blood of dragons runs in your veins, boy…”_ Oceiros reeks of rotting flesh, heavy as a hand pressed smothering to Lothric’s face, strings of mucus hanging from his scaleless hide. Lothric had only ever seen his father in this form when he was a corpse, discolored meat sloughing from his bones and a black and oozing hole where his head had been. It bears that same expression now, toothless maw hanging open, frozen in pain and fury. _“It was I who put it there…”_ Every step sinks the dragon into the broken floor, mud and fetid water bubbling between his claws. _“And now, I am taking it back.”_

It is only a nightmare, but he awakes retching and sobbing, and the feeling of the dragon’s jaws snapping shut over his head and driving him into the spongy ground remains.

* * *

  * **crowded**



The dozens of eyes upon his back feel like a physical weight, heavier than the crown. The silver corona fits loosely, even over the fabric of his hood, like his throne, like his duty, designed for somebody so much grander, so much _more_ than what he had turned out to be. He puts his hands together and stares at the floor as the officiating priest drones on, at the carpet worn by the feet of kings and queens. There’s a line he’s meant to say, but the crowd is muttering, shifting restlessly, distractedly, eager for it all to be over.

* * *

Lorian would not wish his duty upon anybody. Caring for Lothric demanded so much of him, though his brother was frail and as easily carried as a bundle of reeds. So many little things compounded it. Helping him dress and undress, peeling his robes from his fragile, trembling body, bathing him and plucking the embedded feathers from his skin. Rubbing liniment on his joints to help soothe the ache that plagued him constantly, and ointment on the sores that formed on his knees from kneeling upon hard stone for hours on end. Filing his nails so he could not scratch himself bloody, and cleaning his wounds when he did anyway. Helping him drink when his hands shook too badly to hold a cup, wiping blood from his face when he bit his tongue during his seizures.

And not simply the physical tasks, either. Watching him grow from a sickly infant to a sickly, lonely child, adhering to a life that had been decided for him long before he was born. Lying awake at night, listening to him cough his lungs raw or whimper in pain, or cry quietly in fear and frustration. Watching him grow bitter, angry, unhappy in his helplessness and resentment of his fate. Knowing that his brother, so creative and clever and thoughtful, a young man who could have accomplished so much in his lifetime, was trapped in a body desperate to die, and that before he even saw proper adulthood it would get its wish, and all of that potential would be forever lost.

* * *

  * **pollen**



Spring has arrived, the countryside blooming pink and white. The castle walls and garden paths are awash in yellow powder and Lothric delights in how it coats his pale skin and dour gray robes. His sinuses are in complete misery, and no matter how frequently he uses his healing spells to restore his state, he can’t stop sniffling, eyes and nose running constantly. But it is spring, the cold of winter finally banished, and he wants to be outside among the opening flowers, wishing his own renewal could happen this way, with pollen and petals instead of ash and fire.

* * *

  *   **hug**



His arms feel like home, the careful embrace Lothric has known since his very first moments of life. No less warm than they have always been, rough with old burn scars and claw marks Lothric has memorized, his heartbeat in one ear. But his flesh lies thinner upon his bones these days, the curve of his ribs palpable when Lothric wraps his arms around his brother to hold him in turn. Heartbreak is eating away at him like a parasite within its favored host, and soon there won’t be anything left, the last meaningful part of him burnt to ashes.

 

* * *

  * **soul**



Upon waking it feels like being torn in two. The hand of a god wrapped around your heart and the rush of blood in your ears singing, screaming at you that you are not _whole_. You are _dying_ , your world will end unless you reunite.

You know it is absurd. Your brother is only rooms away, resting, unhurt. The nurses have told you as much but you roll from your bed and drag your useless legs behind you, clawing your way towards the door on your bruised elbows. You have to find him, you _must_. You must become whole again.

* * *

_Better to appreciate the warmth of the Flame in its absence._

Chill seeps up through the thin chapel carpet, through his robes, through his parchment skin and into his bones, spreading roots like a parasitic plant.

_In the beginning there was no dark, no light. Without dark, we would not know light, just as without cold, we would not know heat._

This winter has been one of the coldest on record, rivers freezing solid, snow piling until it collapsed roofs, roads utterly impassable. The fish in the garden ponds, usually hardy enough to survive until the spring thaw, had to be brought inside. His mouth tastes coppery, he has long been too weak to continue coughing. 

_Without pain we would not know comfort._

The priest’s words play over in his head like the buzzing of summer cicadas. 

_Without hunger we would not know satiation._

If spiritual purity was so vital to them, why was he in here alone, with only his own breathing and the chattering of his teeth to ruminate to.

_Without loss we would not value life._

Why was he left here on the altar steps like an unwanted child. What was he meant to learn?

* * *

  * **sleepy**



Their mother has gone, wisely so, she has fled. Her bed’s gold satin sheets roll before him, large as an ocean. Lorian cannot muster the strength to climb up onto it, lying knelt with his head in his arms at its side as if in mourning, hands and knees smeared with blood and ash.

Lothric lies where he had slid from his brother’s shoulders, on his side against the plush carpet. The gardens crackle feverishly while they burn, reaching them through the broken windows, screaming and the clanging of weapons in the distance as the kingdom tears itself in two.

* * *

  *   **burning**



“What do you see, dear?” Normally Lothric was content to lie in Emma’s lap and doze, but tonight he was abnormally active, almost like a regular toddler should be. The last few days had scarcely seen him awake for more than a few minutes at a time.

There’s a small table set next to the sofa, with a candle and a few storybooks piled on it. “Do you like the candle?” she asks as he clumsily crawls toward it. “It’s lovely, but do be- LOTHRIC!”

She doesn’t get to complete the sentence as he reaches out and knocks it over.

 

 

 


	3. Part III

  * **rage**



“Lorian, please, don’t…”

The sword hovers above the crouching priestess, slowly cooking gore caked upon its smoldering surface. Lorian’s shadow falls over her, the closing door of a coffin, a descending guillotine, his armor slick with the blood of his relatives and their co-conspirators.

_**She never cared.** _

_She only ever wanted the best for you-_

_**She stood by and let it happen.** _

_She had no idea, she never wanted him to suffer-_

_**But he did.** _

Emma is sobbing, mumbling their names, the names of the boys she loved as her own children. Lothric, silent, leaves it to him.

* * *

  * **frost**



A knight in jagged quicksilver armor, bowed upon all fours and scrabbling like an animal, fingers hooked into claws, jaws gnashing and eyes rolling luminous foxfire blue and behind the vertical slits of its helmet. Cold metal like the jagged teeth of winter seeps up Lorian’s arm, through the dented scales of his armor as he holds it down and it thrashes and squeals.

He jams his sword in between the plates, into its belly, in hopes that it might find relief from that endless gnawing hunger before it expires. Let whoever they were die peacefully, maybe even die warm.

* * *

  * **smoke**



“Lothric…” Lorian smears burn salve on Lothric’s thin forearms and bony knuckles. The worst of it has been healed by magic, but his sleeves are singed, the gold borders on the ancient cloth blackened in spots. “Why are you always trying to put your hands into the fireplace? You know what will happen…”

He doesn’t get an answer, the boy staring sullenly into the trembling candle flames lighting the small operation. Emma doesn’t know. He wouldn’t want to worry her. Lorian begins to wrap his arms in soft bandages. “You’re going to really hurt yourself one day…”

“I was cold.”

* * *

  * **lavender**



“I brought you these.” Pretty, fragrant purple flowers Lorian had picked from the herb gardens. There were plenty of them, they even grew wild in the fields. And it was only a few, four or five. Just enough for a small bouquet.

“Oh, Lorian…” his mother chides gently, taking them from his hand. “Those are supposed to be for medicine, you can’t just pick them.”

“But there’s so many…”

“You can’t just take things whenever you want to.” She combs his hair with her fingers as he looks guiltily down at the floor. “You have to be more careful, dear.”

* * *

  * **bells**



Hourly the bells tolled in exultation of their savior’s birth. Their Lord of Cinder come at last. Their prayers answered. Would anyone be fooled in the least? Hardly anybody saw the Queen these days, but to those that caught glances of her it was obvious she had not been pregnant. But belief so fervent clouded peoples’ eyes, made them willing to accept a miracle birth.

Today, the public would see him, lay eyes upon their future king. Lorian holds Lothric’s tiny hand, warming his chilly little fingers. He hardly stirs, easily mistaken for a corpse but for his shallow breathing.

* * *

  *   **perfume**



The letter, written on parchment with gilded edges, scented like honeysuckle. Lothric had found it while hiding in his mother’s bedroom, and brought it to Lorian, asked him to read the longer and more difficult words.  _I think of you every evening,_  it says,  _my luminescent beacon, my shining sun. At the end of the world I will hold you in my arms, and yours in mine. I have known and loved many, but you most of all._

It is signed  _ **Fina.**_  Lorian places it back where it was, and tells Lothric not to speak of it to their mother.

* * *

  * **skin**



It was not enough to know a strong healing spell, a proper healer also had to understand the body, inside and out. The queen felt it was time for her young prince to practice on the real thing.

Lothric stares down at the body, lips pursed, glancing over the man’s pale flesh. He’d been a priest down in the settlement below, sent to the castle to be prepared and buried, passed suddenly of unknown causes. Today, they would try to find out why. His body is soft, unworked. There are no scabs on his knees like there are on Lothric’s.

* * *

  * **paste**  



Did they really need a book detailing the history of some long-dead kingdom? Lorian tears the pages carefully, laying them leaf by leaf on the broken tabletop. They don’t have much, but they do have glue, and oil paint scavenged from the deep recesses of the Archives. Without a proper canvas they would have to make do with layered, crumbling pages, fingers instead of brushes, but it would be wonderful to paint again and bring some color to their dour castle. Cover the dusty old pages of a forgotten king’s conquest, like wildflowers covered a mountainside after a volcanic eruption.

* * *

  *   **sweat**



Inside the chapel it is blessedly cool. While in winter the stone is like knives to his unprotected palms, in summer it is the respite it was always meant to be, for both soul and body. Lothric dips his fingers into the holy font, bringing them dripping to the honeybee he’d found languishing on a windowsill. “There there,” he murmurs, letting the tiny insect lap up the droplets as he lies on the thin carpet beside it. Some days he feels this is all he can do. His people don’t love him, but he can make this one small difference.

* * *

  * **disappointment**



“Is my mother coming? She’s the only other one who can use the spell…”

“Yes, very soon,” the cleric reassures Lorian, where he lies salved and bandaged. Lothric is beside him, struggling to cling to consciousness. He is capable of wielding their mother’s powerful healing spells, but they drain him so, leave him weak and trembling like a leaf. Demon fire burns and burns long after the flame has gone out and every rise of Lorian’s ribs is agony. He cannot sleep. She needs to soothe him, all other relief is tepid, temporary.

Before nightfall, Lothric must heal him again.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short addition, I'll have to put out another prompt so I can add more soon.

“Lorian…” Lothric calls for you, finally able to take a breath in between bouts of coughing, his voice a tiny squeak. That’s all he manages before it starts again, fits wracking his whole body. It’s the dead of night and nothing you give him seems to help, not tea, not honey, and you want so badly to sleep but you can’t just leave him here alone.

He watches as you bury your face in a pillow, muffling your sobs. You can’t do anything to stop it, for so long you’ve held your emotions back. He must think it’s his fault.

* * *

“Show me, Lothric.” Oceiros did not often hold his son. He lies limp in his arms, bony as a corpse. “You nearly bled that girl out. Emma told me all about it… Come now. I’m not angry.”

He’s nodding off, taken from his bed the moment Oceiros learned of what he’d done. Oceiros grasps his chin, lifting his head. “I know you can use dragon breath, boy. Do you understand… Can you possibly comprehend the significance of the paledrake’s spell? Ultimate crystal sorcery? What have they been teaching you?”

“I sneezed…” he murmurs.

“You’re completely useless, boy, do you realize that?”

* * *

“What did you name him?”

“Nestor.” Lorian looks down at the hatchling wyvern, head in his lap, tuckered out from playtime. His shirt is singed and full of holes, but he still smiles.

“Nestor? Why?”

“Because he likes to make nests…”

“That’s stupid, all wyverns make nests.”

“Well when you get _your_ wyvern, you can name it whatever you want,” Lorian says patiently, knowing full well his cousin was never going to be allowed a wyvern, because he wasn’t training to be a knight, and even if he was, he didn’t have the right temperament. A knight wasn’t spiteful.

* * *

 _Why does he look like me,_ Gwyndolin wants to ask, but she keeps her lips shut tight. She's in public, such a rare place for her these days, with her sister and her youngest son. The first Gwyndolin has seen him, this fated heir of fire, this pallid child with his white hair falling unkempt in his face. His large, sunken eyes and delicate features, so like her own in all those old portraits she hid away to preserve her unknowable nature. Some similarity was not unusual, they were aunt and nephew after all, but there’s something here she doesn't trust.

* * *

“He’s so much like…”

Gwynevere’s smile falters as she glances at her brother. In the foreground, Lorian conjures lightning, hurling the stakes of crackling light into the sky. He looks back and grins, too far away to notice her expression.

“Like who?” Gwynfor asks, expecting to hear _our father_ , or even _like you._

“It’s… nothing. I suppose it’s just what people are expected to say about their children.”

Lorian looks nothing like his grandfather. An obedient boy, loyal to his family, gentle, quiet and modest. Not like his uncle had been. Not a disappointment, nor a traitor. Nothing like him at all.

* * *

“Come with me, Lorian.”

His mother holds his hands. Her palms are silky, she is radiant despite the weariness she wears like a mourning shroud. He himself feels like a husk. “This was not your fault, you should not suffer for it. There is still so much goodness in your heart. There’s nothing left for us here.”

He wants to shout at her, ask her what about his brother, why isn’t she offering this to both of them? But he knows, Lothric is a lost cause. Lothric doesn’t love her. But Lorian just shakes his head, slides his hands out of hers.

* * *

“My prince…” The handmaiden sounds like she’s about to cry, fingers laced, imploring. “Please get out of the pond.”

“No.” Lothric lazily allows a koi to nibble his fingers, hoping for a treat. Duckweed speckles his robes like a wet green galaxy, algae trailing from his gold jewelry. “…it’s hot.”

“It will be cooler inside the castle, my prince. And the… the diplomats will be disappointed.”

The prince sighs heavily, sinking lower into the dark water, looking slightly more lively than a drowned corpse. “Tell them if they want to see me they’ll have to join me in here.”  


 


	5. Part V

  * **vanilla**



A breezy summer’s evening. People have gathered in the lush gardens. Lorian, though young, knows it is a funeral, that soon the sweet scent of flowers and earth will give way to smoke, to embers rising into the night sky like escaping birds. It was one of the priests, slipped and hit his head on the stairs. Lorian saw the blood they couldn’t scrub out of the carpet. Emma strokes his dark hair, offers him sweets even though he isn’t upset. It’s nice to be allowed outside when he ought to be in bed, to see the stars come out.

* * *

  * **prickly**



“Poor boy… Didn’t you look before you tried to pick it?”

Lorian stares at the ground rather than at his mother as she gently heals his palms. It had taken her nearly an hour to pluck every stinging barb from his skin. The blossom, so luridly red and broad-petaled, had hidden its thorny underside. He’d wanted to bring it to her. “I… I didn’t see the spines.”

“Please be more careful, Lorian. You’ve got to have feelings in your palms to hold a sword…”

Surely he was good for more than that. But he nods. “I know. I’m sorry, mother.”

* * *

  * **bittersweet**



“Such a well-behaved little lord, isn’t he.”

The old woman, a visitor, smiles at Lorian. He holds Lothric in his arms, his young brother fast asleep. Only recently had Lothric’s fever broken, his pale skin still pink and patchy. He had not seized today, which was a good sign. Those always came with fever. Lorian hoped he would grow out of them.

Even when not ill, he scarcely had the strength to cry or fuss. Lorian would have liked to tell her he’d prefer if the boy were lively and difficult. But he just smiles back, tiredly. “Yes, he is.”

* * *

  * **spicy**



“You brewed it with your sword?”

“Yes. Used it to boil the water. I cleaned it first, of course.”

Lothric peers into his mug of tea. Lorian swore the sword had its own consciousness, that the Demon Prince’s will lingered in its iron body. Whatever possessed it, it seemed agreeable. The sword did not even allow anybody else to touch it, and here it was, letting its heat be used to brew tea. Lothric sips carefully from the mug. “…tastes a little funny. Like it’s got spice in it. It’s not bad.”

“Is that what Chaos tastes like, then? Cinnamon?”

* * *

  *   **lemon**



“My sweet boy…”

Emma’s fingers comb through Lothric’s hair. Dear, reliable Emma. Lothric knew she would attend to him, make sure he ate, give him his medication and tea, even sweets if he wanted them. This time it was a lemon tart, fresh from the kitchens. He chews, eyes glassy, head resting against her chest.

As attentive as Emma was, she was not so different from the rest of them. Though she was gentle, she was kind, she still preached to him of his duties. Of how beloved he would be, of all the people his fiery death would save.

* * *

  *   **pride**



“Hold it there.”

Lothric does as he’s asked, pressing the strand of yarn to the top of his head as Lorian gradually unspools it, laying it down his bony back, to his hip, to his knee and eventually his heel. Not the most accurate means of measuring height, but it was impossible for Lothric to stand like most children did, against a wall where chalk lines could be used to mark their growth. 

“You’re almost six inches taller than last year…” Lorian says, smiling as he helps Lothric sit back up.

“I’m not growing… I think I’m just stretching out.”

* * *

  * **crunching leaves**



“My prince, are you paying attention?”

Fall has come, but the afternoon sun has warmed the grounds enough for Lothric to have his lessons outside. He picks up leaves and crumples them in his fingers, sprinkling leaf confetti in his lap.

The old scholar sighs. “If you will not listen to me, there is no reason for us to be out here at all.”

Lothric pauses, looking at him. The scholar clears his throat. “…very good. Let’s continue-”

He gets no further, as Lothric claps his hands together, teleporting his tutor away, then lying down in the grass to nap.

* * *

  *   **romantic**



Knights from the Cathedral of the Deep, he’d been told. Lorian seldom saw other knights that rivaled him in height; they towered far above any of their own soldiers, and there was something impressive in their sheer solidness, how they appeared impossible to topple even beyond their bulky plate and greatshields. He swore he could feel the ground tremble as they passed. Supposedly they were here on loan to the king, as a “favor” though Lorian knew very little about it.

However, he did know that he rarely had the opportunity to meet other knights, especially not such tall ones. Maybe some of them were friendly, they might get to know one another.

There’s one stationed near the entrance to the gardens. Lorian approaches, holding his hands behind his back. As he draws close, he notices an odd, heavy smell, like… stagnant water. Maybe one of the fish ponds needed cleaning. He clears his throat, standing next to the knight. “Good morning. I know you’re on duty right now, but… perhaps when you’ve been relieved, I could show you around the castle?”

The knight doesn’t speak. Instead, he lets out a thick, phlegmy gurgling, like mud gushing from a drainpipe.

“I- ah,” Lorian stammers. “I understand. Have a nice day.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of kid/younger lorian this time for some reason. poor boy!


	6. Part VI - Multifandom Extravaganza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it says Multifandom but these are... mostly for my Bloodborne AU.
> 
> The chapter before this one is also new, don't miss it!

  * **piano (Dishonored)**



Lorian had been meaning to sell off the ancient grand piano for years. His mother used to play it, but it had sat closed and collecting dust since his brother was born. He’s dozing on the couch when he hears the first few notes drift in, lulled by nostalgia, believing himself to be a child again, and her idly playing in the hazy summer afternoon…

But that’s not right. She isn’t here, and summer has long gone and withered into late fall. Lorian sits up, and the music stops. 

* * *

  *   **grimy (Witcher)**



It hits Lorian like a slap in the face as the castle doors open, the tart, eggy smell of sulfur. He sniffs, wincing. Is it his imagination, or has it only gotten stronger since he was here last?

“Ah, you’re back.” Oceiros glances him up and down, as if to make sure he’s still got all his limbs. “You stink like a draft horse as much as you look like one. Go bathe, then we will speak.”

“Why’s it smell so bad in here?”

Oceiros looks back, walking off. “Need I remind you, you’re not being paid to ask questions.”

* * *

  *   **metallic (Bloodborne)**



 Rust flecks off the lid of the anchovy tin as Lorian peels it back, slowly, frowning at the contents. There’s no visible rot, but this particular tin is awfully old, and an empty stomach was preferable to food poisoning. There’s a sour tinge of metal when he places one on his tongue, deciding he’d risk it, knowing he needed the strength to face whatever might clamber into their backyard. He might not have the strength to fight it off if he was vomiting in the weeds all night, but he  _definitely_  wouldn’t if his legs were too shaky to stand.

* * *

  * **raven's call (Bloodborne)**  



“Here, bird…” Lothric paws at the wet grass, trying to entice the big raven over. With the air by the shore thick as soup and flies buzzing in clouds, it must have come down to the marsh to cool off. The raven croaks as it struts over, fearless, seeming larger than he was himself. Its mouth is open, throat working as it pants.

He lifts his hand, slowly moving to pet its glossy wings. The bird does not flinch, and he thinks perhaps it is tame, but that notion is shattered when it grabs one of his tendrils and pulls.

* * *

  * **exhausted (Bloodborne)**



The bay is calm, murky green, a cheap emerald cabochon. Lorian is quick to notice Lothric hasn’t returned from the crab traps, that the marker buoy bobs fitfully. He is not a swimmer, and though lean he is still heavier than most grown men. The mud, feet-deep and thick as tar, fights him every step of his plodding journey, threatens to sink him lower as he cuts Lothric free of the fishing line and undoes the squid hooks from his fragile flesh.

His legs ache like railroad spikes have been driven into them, but at least Lothric is safe now.

* * *

  *   **drunk (Bloodborne)**



Many odd things washed in with the tide, fallen from ships, dropped by careless sailors. Lothric, always curious, had found the dark brown bottle bobbing in the corner of his pond, crusted with barnacles, and pried the cork free, spilling its dark amber contents into the water.

Lucky that his brother had found him before long, unconscious at the murky bottom, his amphibious skin having soaked the stuff in without it ever touching his tongue. He is ill for days, and the inhabitants of the docks share his sorrows, plagued by spiking headaches and dizziness to rival spells of vertigo.

* * *

  *   **home (Bloodborne)**



Home had once been the scent of candle smoke, medical alcohol, sweet moon-touched soil and the faintest whiff of hot metal. Now they found it in sea salt, rotting wood and pine needles. And further on, sandlewood, incense, warm fur and feathers.

They had often asked themselves, where else could they go? Who would have a wretched pair like them, rejected by the only gods they’d ever known. But, perhaps they did not need the gods after all, gods whose sympathies were erratic, who did not have kind, calloused hands and gentle words and seemingly infinite patience for their anxieties. 

* * *

  *   **mother (Bloodborne)**



 "In my dreams I see her, dying on the sand and crying like her heart is breaking… I try to go to her but she’s angry at me, she won’t let me near and I don’t understand why. Why wasn’t I good enough for her? I love her so much but she doesn’t want me… She pushes me away, even though she is weak, barely able to lift her arms. And- and sometimes…” He takes a shaky breath, licking his lips. “Her… her child, the one they cut out of her, sometimes he crawls out from beneath her, weeping and oozing and dragging her insides with him… And he staggers over to me, and he wraps his fingers around my neck… Because I’m not good enough, I was made to replace him but I can never be as good as the real thing…”

 


End file.
